


It's Hot

by bexara



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexara/pseuds/bexara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hot, and the heat can get to our boys in funny, odd, sexy ways. Three connected short, slightly porny to very smutty drabblesque fics showcasing Midorima & Takao, Aomine & Kise, and Kagami & Kuroko.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midorima & Takao

It’s the dog days of summer, 39°C in the shade, and every one of those burning, sweltering, smothering degrees is felt by three sets of young men scattered over various parts of the city. The heat does funny things to people, as they will soon find out ...

* * *

Takao stands in front of the silver, oscillating fan. The artificial wind blows his bangs around and flutters his shorts a bit, but does nothing to alleviate the stifling, humid, scorching heat that makes breathing a chore and has his underwear sticking to him in the most uncomfortable of places. In fact, it only seems to stir the muggy, broiling air and make things hotter.

" _Shi-i-i-i-n-ch-a-a-a-n, th-i-i-i-s i-i-s-n't w-o-o-o-rk-i-i-n-n-g_. _I-I-I'm_ _st-i-i-i-ll_ _h-o-o-ot_ ," he complains into the fan, the vibration from the blades distorting his words. He thinks it’s pretty funny, so decides to try some other sounds. " _O-o-o-o-o-o, a-a-a-a-a-ah. Sh-i-i-i-n-ch-a-a-a-n s-e-e-lls s-e-e-a-sh-e-e-ll-s b-y-y th-e-e s-e-e-a-sh-o-o-o-re."_

"Stop that, you idiot!" Midorima barks from behind him, his deep voice rife with agitation, though the heat seems to have taken some of his usual sharpness away. "It's annoying."

Takao glances over his shoulder to find Shūtoku's ace-sama reclining on one of the twin beds in the room, a book lying carelessly across the bandaged fingers of his left hand. With his long body, lean muscles, and broad shoulders, the athlete in him is clearly visible, even in a prone position. That tall, trim undeniably masculine form is the object of Takao’s daytime, nighttime, _anytime_ fantasies and he thanks God, Buddha, every one of Midorima’s ugly, weird, stupid lucky items that he has that magnificent figure all to himself.

Right now, though, Midorima’s head is tilted back, his eyes are closed and long lashes, lashes girls everywhere just _have_ to envy, are resting on the flushed, smooth skin of his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted and glistening as if he has just licked them, and his beautiful, fairy hair is clinging in damp tendrils to his forehead, to the sides of his face, to the nape of his neck. To Takao’s sharp, hungry, and admittedly perverted eyes, he looks like a person who has just engaged in some illicit, carnal activity.

Feeling a heat that has nothing to do with the blazing weather and everything to do with the man unknowingly sprawled out like a pin-up poster model before him, Takao jerks his gaze away, moving it lower. Unlike him, who is shirtless, the only concession Midorima has made to the heat is to don a light orange tank top. It has ridden up, however, and the flat, hard, cut ridges of his abdomen are visible. As Takao watches, a drop of sweat beads above Midorima's perfect, kissable, lickable navel. It quivers, and then slides lazily down his side. Takao tracks the rolling drop with his eyes and suddenly has the urge to track it with his tongue instead.

His legs are moving before his mind can tell him it is a bad idea, a _very_ bad idea. He jumps, leaping through the air to land on Midorima with a full body pounce.

Vibrant green eyes open, widen behind fashionable glasses, and stare up at Takao in shock, anger, and aggravation.

“What are you doing, Takao?” he puts a hand, his wrapped hand, between them, against Takao’s chest and pushes.

“Since we are already hot anyway, let’s do something that will make the heat fun, bearable, _enjoyable_. What do you say, Shin-chan?” Takao murmurs, his voice low and husky and needy.

Of course, Midorima just doesn’t _get_ it. He never does until Takao hits him over the head with his want, his desire, his mind-numbing, body-aching, soul-shattering lust.

Pushing up his glasses with the fingers not wedged between them, Midorima just sighs in exasperation. “It’s too damn hot for your shenanigans. Now, get off before I throw you off.”

“But shenanigans are _exactly_ what I’m in the mood for, Shin-chan,” he smiles and takes the hand, the one between them, the bandaged one, Midorima’s prized hand, and he sticks one of those strong, slender fingers in his mouth, wrappings and all, and he _sucks_. He licks it from tip to root, winding his tongue around it in an erotic dance that leaves it slick and wet and dripping.

There, Midorima _finally_ understands, and his breath deepens, his heart thumps, his body trembles, and Takao can see all these delightful, glorious signs that show just how much his touch affects the man beneath him, how _he_ affects him.

Takao kisses him. On the mouth, on the cheek, on his chin, on his ear. And his own breath quickens, his own heart races, his own body shivers and quakes with the need to join with Midorima, combine their heat, and become one for the twentieth, thirtieth, hundredth time. They've made love so often, in so many ways, he's lost count.

“Hey, Shin-chan, can I have you, can I have you?” he’s asking, begging, pleading, rubbing frantically against Midorima, and he’s hard and aching, and _thankyougod_! Midorima is hard, too, he can feel the other’s erection pressing into him.

Midorima turns his face away, two bright spots of color highlighting his perfectly shaped cheekbones, and he mumbles, “Do … do as you like.” _Damn!_ , he’s just so cute, so adorable, so freaking irresistible and Takao can barely contain himself.

Then clothes are flying and hands are everywhere, touching everywhere, probing everywhere. Things that need to be wet are made wet, and he’s sliding down, opening up his body to the wonderful, amazing fullness, to a heat that is welcome, wanted, _loved_. He stares into luminescent green eyes, falls into them, drowns in them, and he moves.

“Does it feel good, Shin-chan,” he gasps, “does it?” Because it feels good to him. So good.  It feels marvelous, the best feeling ever, like heaven and home have somehow melded to become one.

Midorima doesn’t answer, he never answers, at least not with words. He reaches up, grabs Takao’s head for a long, hard, devastating kiss, and he also grabs Takao’s hand, locking their fingers together just like their bodies are locked together below. Takao smiles into the kiss, squeezes the fingers wrapped around his, and lets the feel and the scent and the sound and the _heat_ that is his Shin-chan carry him away.


	2. Aomine & Kise

Blue eyes gleefully observing the carnage he’s wrecking on screen with maniacal abandon, Aomine doesn’t notice the other person walking up until a large, warm body flops bonelessly against his side. The bed dips and his hand jars, moving his thumb at a crucial moment and allowing the sword-wielding fiend he’s fighting to slice his character’s head right off in a bloody, gory mess.

Frustrated, he chucks the controller at the floor and turns to glare at the man beside him. “Dammit, Kise you asshole, I was almost at the end of that level! Now I’ll have to go back and start all over.”

Laughing, golden eyes widen dramatically as Kise affects a look of contrition on his gorgeous face, a face that seduces thousands on a daily basis yet belongs only to the man scowling so fiercely at him now.

“I’m sorry, Aominecchi. Here, a token of my apology,” he sticks out his hand. It has a popsicle in it.

Aomine takes it even as he asks suspiciously, “Where did you get this?”

Kise unwraps an identical one he has in his other hand and smiles. “From the vending machine down the hall. Man, Aominecchi, these love hotels really _do_ have everything.”

Aomine looks at him, _really_ looks at him. Takes in the blond hair, wet from his shower and curling slightly around the edges. The light, almost see-through white cotton robe that barely reaches his knees, carelessly belted at the waist and gaping open to reveal the tempting expanse of smooth, firm, tawny skin _and_ the edge of one flat, small brown nipple. The bare arms, and bare legs, and bare feet and—

“Kise, did you go out of the room like that?!” he explodes.

“Eh?” Kise glances down at himself, looking confused. “Yes, why, what’s wrong?”

Slapping himself in the forehead, Aomine has to stop his hands from reaching over and strangling that beautiful but obviously dumb neck.

“And people call _me_ stupid?”  he gripes in disbelief. “You’re a famous model, retard, what if someone saw you?”

Comprehension slowly dawns across his face. “Whoops, I forgot. I’m sorry,” Kise grins sheepishly, eyes downcast, but he peeks up beneath those golden lashes, glancing teasingly at Aomine, and Aomine knows he isn’t sorry at all.

_Shit!_ He rips open his own popsicle, scarcely noting its blue color, and shoves it into his mouth. The cool treat is a refreshing contrast to the damnable heat roasting the city right now. He hasn’t even bothered with a robe because of the heat, is just lounging around in his shorts, and he’s still burning up. Even the air conditioner in this fancy, expensive hotel room - a room that Kise paid for and doesn't _that_ just pick Aomine’s pride all to pieces - is having a hard time keeping up against the brutal, oppressive weather.

“Uwah, so tasty!” Kise happily noms his icy snack as well, and the warmth in the room, and maybe the warmth of his body and his mouth, is already causing it to melt.  Before Aomine’s suddenly riveted eyes, the melting liquid pools at the bottom of the popsicle, wavers there for a moment, and falls. It glides slowly, lazily, sinuously, down his hand, his wrist leaving a wet, blue trail behind.

Kise notices it and, with a laugh, lifts his arm to his mouth, lapping at the winding blue line. His pink tongue flicks out, licking delicately at the small mess like a cat, and Aomine suddenly feels hot for a completely different reason. But, Kise is not done with his oblivious, careless torment. The position of his arm allows the popsicle to hover over his chest. It continues to melt, and another drop falls into the open vee of his robe, and somehow the little bit of fluid lands with unerring precision on that exposed, perfect, tempting nipple.  The bead catches on the tiny peak, and it must be cold because the nipple puckers, hardens, and the bead hangs on the now stiff, pointed crest for a millisecond before slipping off to roll across his chest.

Aomine stares at the blue streak and has the abrupt, possessive, _primal_ urge to see Kise covered all over in that sticky, melting liquid, to see the blond stained with the color, _his_ color. He doesn’t know why blue is his he just knows that is, has always been, just the way Kise is his, and Aomine wants to coat him, dye him, _mark_ him with proof of it.

In a sudden, nimble flexing of arms and legs, he’s moving, grabbing Kise, rolling the other man under him. Kise looks up at him, wide eyed, mouth parted in surprise, and he laughs a little breathlessly.

“Hey, Aominecchi, didn’t you say it was too hot for this? Isn’t that why you started playing video games in the first place?” He’s not really protesting though. His strong, lanky, well-built body is relaxing, opening his legs, making a place between them for his lover. Those topaz eyes of his are slumberous, half-lidded. His tongue isn’t the only cat-like thing about him.

Pressing his arousal, hard and heavy and aching between his thighs, against Kise’s growing erection, Aomine smiles fiercely, darkly, hungrily.

“But we have just thing here to help cool us down,” he murmurs huskily and takes the popsicle from Kise’s fingers.

“Wha—,” Kise opens his mouth to object or question, and Aomine sticks the frozen treat inside.  Their eyes lock as he pushes it in and slowly pulls it back out, and Kise isn’t _that_ stupid, he understands what Aomine is doing. So he wraps his tongue around the quickly disintegrating rectangle, twirls it over the top, glides it down the side, then takes the popsicle in deep and sucks.  Aomine watches those lips – the lips of an idol, lips of a star, lips that will probably be worth one-hundred million yen someday – make love to that dwindling blue ice and he wishes it is his cock instead, but that can wait for another time.

He keeps up the thrusting motion of his hand, unconsciously rolling his hips in sync, and each time he goes a little further, pushes a little deeper, until Kise makes a slight noise of protest. Aomine just smiles sinfully at him, earning a glare in return, before a mischievous, crafty look comes over Kise’s face. Aomine doesn’t realize his intent until his mouth opens wide, and then his white, even teeth are coming down with a loud, snapping click, biting the popsicle completely off, even indenting the stick in the process.

“Ouch,” Aomine winces, feeling a brief, sympathetic pain in his dick.

“Mm, I seem to have eaten your blue stick, Aominecchi,” Kise says innocently, in a musical, laughing voice.

“I see that,” Aomine grunts, throwing the now barren stick in his hand aside, and leans down to seal their lips together. Kise tastes of honey and magic and _life_ and the sugary, frozen concoction he’s just devoured. Aomine drives his tongue in deep, flicks it against the roof of Kise’s mouth, over his teeth, probing and thrusting until Kise is kissing him back, tangling their tongues together. He breaks the kiss because he can feel _his_ popsicle thawing in earnest now, running down his hand and arm, and he has much better uses for it.

They are both panting as he pulls back. He grabs the belt barely holding Kise’s robe together, and yanks. It falls open, finally revealing all that glorious, golden skin to Aomine’s feverish midnight gaze. He takes the popsicle in his hand and does what he’s wanted to do since he saw that one, blue, melting drop fall on Kise’s chest earlier, he touches it to the slightly stained nipple.

“Aominecchi, what are you— _ngh_ ,” Kise starts with a protest and ends with a moan as Aomine circles the rapidly hardening bud, rubbing the melting ice over it, around it, blue tendrils of sticky water dripping, flowing from the stiffened tip. Aomine bends down, chases those rivulets with his tongue, up to that tantalizing nipple, and fastens his mouth over it. He nibbles and bites and licks the hard nub before drawing it deep, sucking it hard. Kise gasps, back arcing off the bed, and his hands find Aomine’s dark hair, plunge in restlessly, tugging, _kneading_ – again he’s like a cat.

Aomine smiles against his skin, mouth still working, and his hand doesn’t stay idle. It drags the popsicle over to Kise’s other nipple and gives it the same treatment, and then it’s dipping down his chest and onto his abdomen, trailing cold, blue drops behind it. Kise shivers and moans again, his fingernails digging into Aomine’s scalp.  Aomine chuckles, but it is a hoarse, husky sound. He is not at all unaffected by what he is doing.

Lifting up, he lets Kise’s fingers slide from his hair and rubs the dripping popsicle over a pert little belly button, and then slides it down further, over crisp, golden curls, and then further still, holding his hand suspended until Kise whispers his name in a long, urgent, needy sigh, “ _Aominecchi_.”

Feeling like his shorts are strangling his own cock now, he touches Kise’s with the sugary blue ice that’s shape is hardly recognizable anymore. Kise shudders and heaves and whimpers, his long, beautiful shaft actually twitching at the contact. Aomine feels like shuddering himself. His palms are sweating, his heart is pounding, and his body is throbbing with the need to spread those long, muscled legs, bury himself between them, and thrust inside, hammer away until the desperate, furious, overwhelming craving inside him is satisfied.

He doesn’t do that, not yet. Instead he traces the head of Kise’s erection, swirls the popsicle around the shaft, slides it back and forth across the base. Kise’s eyes are closed, his head is thrashing on the pillow now, his hands are fisting in the sheets beneath him, and his hips are bucking, straining. He should stop there, Aomine knows it, but some dark, wicked, uncontrollable urge pushes him on.

Sweat dripping down his face like the melting ice dripping down his arm, he shifts his hand down, beneath Kise’s groin and strokes between his ass. Blond lashes flutter open in surprise and shock and a little unease.

“Not there, Aominecchi,” he gasps, biting his lip.

Aomine reaches up, pressing his thumb against that lip, freeing it, rubbing away the pain.

“Yes, _there_ ,” he rasps, eyes blazing, body blazing, soul blazing for this beautiful, golden person lying wanton and willing and waiting beneath him. “There, everywhere. All of you. Give it to me.” And he pushes the popsicle in.

There’s resistance, and the treat is more slush than ice now, but its moisture helps ease its way in, just a little bit. Kise wails, a lusty, keening sound, and Aomine snaps. Tearing his hand and the remaining, melting popsicle away, he shoves down his shorts and grabs the strip of condoms lying nearby (they are in a love hotel after all). After he’s sheathed in latex, he lifts Kise’s legs and sheaths himself in that lithe, tight body. It’s hot and it’s cool, the last of the ice melting around him as he plunges and thrusts.

Kise wraps his arms, wraps his legs, wraps his scent and his heat and his breath around Aomine, and Aomine can’t control himself. He starts fucking him in hard, fast, frenzied strokes. A gorgeous flush rides Kise’s cheeks, tiny, mewling gasps are forced from his throat with each ramming movement of Aomine’s hips, and his eyes are bright and glowing. It’s beautiful and sexy and driving Aomine completely insane.

He plows his fingers into golden hair, twines it around his fingers, and jerks Kise’s head to the side.  Setting his teeth to the side of that long, supple neck he growls, “Mine. No one else. No one else, Kise, better ever see you, touch you, _have_ you this way.” He bites down, sinks his teeth into warm, smooth flesh, and leaves another kind of mark, not blue but _red_.

Moaning, Kise skims his hands over the dusky skin of Aomine’s shoulders, his back, his hips, down to his ass and he grips, pulling those pounding, slamming hips harder, deeper into him.

“There is no else, Aominecchi!” he cries out. “There never has been, there never will be, Only you, always you.” He’s panting, gasping, struggling for breath as he surges up, meeting Aomine’s violent thrusts.

That confession sends Aomine over the edge. He makes enough space between their writhing bodies to palm Kise’s cock, massage it, jerk it with fast, smooth strokes until Kise is throwing back his head, screaming and spilling his pleasure all over Aomine’s already blue-stained hand. As he cums, his body tightens, clenches around Aomine and suddenly he’s cumming, too, showers of electricity erupting all over his body and pouring out in wonderful, delicious orgasm.

As their hearts start to return to a normal rhythm and their breathing steadies, Aomine discovers he’s sticky and messy and sort of stuck to Kise. He realizes something else as well.

He looks down into Kise’s eyes and sees his own thoughts reflected in that burnished gaze.

“It’s hot,” they both grouse at the same time. Kise bursts into happy, lyrical laughter and Aomine manages a wry smile.

Kise grins up at him a little impishly, a little wickedly. “Want another popsicle?”

Aomine chuckles and brushes a strand of blond hair off his cheek. “Nah, I’m good. I’m good.”

And Aomine was. With Kise next to him, touching him, _loving_ him, he really, really was.

TBC


	3. Kagami & Kuroko

Large hands, strong hands, hands made for holding, gripping, pounding the ball across glossy parquet floors and slamming it with savage force into a 45.72 cm rim are currently, softly smoothing a wet cloth over lean, trim arms. 

It could be the actions of a father bathing his child, and in terms of their physical builds that analogy might not be far off, but the feelings buzzing through Kagami’s body as he drags that damp rag over Kuroko’s naked flesh are anything but parental.

He wants to push that small but hard, masculine form down, explore those sharp angles, lick and bite and _dine_ on that flushed, smooth skin, just eat it up until he gets to _that_ part, the best part, until he can sip and suck the sweat and musk and essence of Kuroko’s pleasure. Kagami’s arousal is a heavy, swollen burden against the inside of his thigh just thinking about these things, and he feels shame along with the gnawing, aching need.

To distract himself from his baser urges, disgusting urges he has no business feeling when Kuroko’s breath is fast and shallow, his cheeks unnaturally rosy and gleaming with perspiration, his eyelashes pale, blue crescents on his ruddy face because opening his eyes is too much of a chore, Kagami fusses, and his tone is _very_ cranky.

“Geez, who gets heat exhaustion walking home from the store and then has to be wiped down like a five-year old who played too long in the sun?” he complains, loudly, dropping the cloth into the bowl of cold water next to him. Wringing it out, he places it on Kuroko’s back, earning a hiss as the cool, wet cloth touches overheated skin.

Eyelashes fluttering open, Kuroko looks at him. Seated as they are, Kuroko with his legs stretched in front of him, Kagami on his right side, cross-legged and hunched over, they are almost eye level.

“I apologize, Kagami-kun,” he replies, and his voice is almost weak rather than soft and mild like it usually is. “I didn’t expect it to be that hot outside.”

Kagami thumps him on the nose, but there is no force behind the mock-blow. “Dumbass, even if it is 39°C, that’s no reason to pass out just taking a walk! Do you know how embarrassing it was carrying you all the way back here? People kept looking at me like I was some kind of perverted kidnapper!”

It’s true. When Kuroko drops like a stone, Kagami has no choice but to heft him over one shoulder and haul him back to the apartment. It’s one of the most awkward, humiliating moments of his life, striding down that street with watermelons in one hand and the other bracing against the back of the panting, wilted figure hanging over him like a limp noodle. Everyone that passes by him stares at him, curiosity and suspicion in their eyes. He can feel their gazes boring into his back as he hurries away, and is just thankful no one calls the police on him.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroko offers again, though a tiny smile plays upon his lips now. 

Eyes narrowing, Kagami sweeps down across Kuroko's spine, dipping in the hollow of his lower back, running the cloth under the elastic of his shorts, earning a shiver from his annoying, stubborn, willful, absurdly weak yet amazingly strong lover.

“You think it’s funny, do you,” he growls, bringing the cloth back up to slide over slender, supple shoulders, “that everyone in my neighborhood now thinks I’m some kind of nasty shota snatcher?”

Kuroko actually laughs, and his voice is stronger now. “Well, _I_ have hauled Kagami-kun around several times, so it’s only fair, right?”

It’s Kagami’s turn to sport heated, pink skin as those words hit home. “Th-that’s, never mind that, stupid.” He doesn’t have an effective argument against Kuroko's statement because, well, it’s the truth. A mortifying, “I-want-to-crawl-in-a-hole-and-die” fact he can never live down.

“A-anyway,” he clears his throat, “you seriously need to do something about this ridiculously weak body of yours.  Falling down from the heat, sheesh.”

He’s in the process of moving the moist, cool rag to Kuroko’s chest when the other man surprises him, shocks him, _tempts_ him by grumbling, “I thought Kagami-kun _liked_ my body.”

His hand had been aiming for Kuroko’s collarbone, but because of those astonishing, suggestive words, it slips. They both freeze as a low, gasping moan cuts through the air. It comes from Kuroko, and he makes it because Kagami is now touching, rubbing, practically fondling his nipple with the plush, wet fabric that misses its target.

The sound hits Kagami’s ears and flies straight to his already throbbing, rigid cock nearly bursting to get out of his shorts, out of his boxers, and _into_ Kuroko. His control is ready to break; he’s walking the edge and could plunge off that slippery slope at any moment. It always happens when they are alone. The court is not the only place he’s like a wild beast.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …,” he swallows and starts to lift his hand away, afraid of what he could do, wants to do, will do if he leaves it there, but Kuroko stops him. Slim fingers grab his, tangle with them, and lock his hand in place.

With his hand held hostage, blue eyes seize him as well, capture and ensnare him in their wintry gaze, but they aren’t cold, never cold. They brand him, melt him, scorch him to the marrow. Ice burns, too, as Kagami knows very well. And, these eyes, these deep, glowing blue pools belong only to him, the rest of the world only allowed to see unreadable, composed, opaque orbs.

“I’m still hot, Kagami-kun,” Kuroko stares at him, rich, sensual energy strumming through his voice, rendering it deeper, and those husky tones lick across Kagami’s skin like small, sizzling tongues of erotic fire. He echoes Kuroko’s shiver from earlier as a shudder of pure, naked need starts at the base of his spine and feathers out through the rest of his body.

Kagami tries once more to do the right thing, the proper thing considering Kuroko’s fainting condition not even thirty minutes before.

“This, ah, we shouldn’t, um, you need to rest,” he’s saying all the gentlemanly, honorable things, but his own voice is hoarse with desire, his own eyes are devouring Kuroko’s naked flesh with fierce, desperate lust, his own hand is pressing against that stiff, pink nipple, feeling it stab against his palm through the damp cloth.

Applying an amazing amount of force, a feat seemingly at odds with his small body, the muscles in Kuroko’s arm flexes and he forces Kagami’s hand down, forces the wet fabric down, over his abdomen, past his navel, to the now distended center of his red, nylon shorts. He holds Kagami’s hand there, letting the bigger man feel the length and breadth and temperature of the erection straining against the garment, letting Kagami touch his arousal.

“I’m still _hot_ , Kagami-kun,” he repeats, and Kagami’s shaky resistance crumbles completely.

With a rough, rumbling sound that is part hunger, part adoration, Kagami drops the cloth and falls upon Kuroko like a starving man who has just been handed his first meal in days, and it’s a gourmet steak dinner.

“Why do you always push and prod and provoke me?” he growls, tumbling Kuroko back onto the futon he had laid out earlier, wedging his hips deep between fit, welcoming thighs.

“Because I want them all,” Kuroko strokes his hands over the wide back hovering above him, trails his fingers over the muscles that bunch and contract under his touch, “Kagami-kun’s cute sides, your sexy sides, even your untamed, dangerous sides. I want to see them, feel them, and know that they belong only to me, that _you_ belong only to me.”

It always amazes him, the sheer frankness Kuroko displays. He doesn’t speak much in general, but when does, he can calmly reveal the most startling, perceptive, and sometimes _very_ intimate things without batting an eyelash. It’s unnerving and yet refreshing, just one of the many facets of Kuroko’s personality that Kagami finds so intriguing … and attractive.

He gently brushes a wispy strand of pale hair out of Kuroko’s eye, the last bit of gentleness he has in him because the primitive part of his soul is screaming, biting, clawing to get at the small figure under lying beneath him, his partner, his lover, his _mate_. Yes, he is indeed a wild, feral beast after all.

“Dumbass, who else would I show those kinds of things to?” Kagami leans down until their lips are almost touching, until his breath is warms Kuroko’s face and his words vibrate along flushed, glistening skin. “I’ve belonged to you since that moment you came running out of the darkness and told me I was different than those other assholes, and that you were ‘Kuroko Tetsuya of Seirin.’  Nothing will ever change that. Not a thousand wins, not a thousand losses, not if we’re separated by a thousand miles, not even Miracles.”

“Kagami-kun, that is very deep. Maybe you have the soul of a poe—.”

“Shut up,” he orders, not letting Kuroko finish, and he kisses him.

Kagami plants his lips over that smart, teasing little mouth, drives his tongue deep, lashing and stroking, his fingers sinking into light blue hair, pulling and tugging, kissing Kuroko with all the ravaging hunger seething inside him. Drinking, eating, _feasting_ on the sweet, wet, silken warmth, but it isn’t enough, is never enough to fill the dark, frenzied appetite raging inside him.

He drags his lips away, along Kuroko’s jaw, biting and nipping, drawing tiny sighs and rippling, restless movements from his lover.  As firm but small, masculine hands skim his arms, kneed the well-defined muscles of his biceps, Kagami buries his face in Kuroko’s neck, inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of him. No one smells like Kuroko, even with musk of sweat lightly perfuming his skin, that sweet, subtle scent seeps through; vanilla, just like the shakes he loves so much.

Kagami flicks his tongue out, tracing the graceful column of Kuroko’s throat, savoring the sweet and salty taste, and he bites down, drawing the flesh between his teeth, sucking it hard. A soft, panting whimper is his reward, and he smiles against the damp, warm skin. When he lifts his head a few moments later, there is a vivid red bruise blooming on Kuroko’s neck.  He should feel guilty that he’s marred that fair skin, but he doesn’t. No, primal satisfaction washes over him, through him, and settles deep within to see his mark, his proof that the man in his arms belongs solely to him. Kuroko isn’t the only possessive one.

Nor is Kuroko a docile, passive lover. This whole time he is running his hands all over Kagami’s body, and even though he is still clothed, Kagami feels electrified by those exploring, burning caresses. The hips beneath his are in motion, too, rolling and arching, causing the hard ridge of Kuroko’s erection to scrape and tease and torment his own thick, inflamed cock. It’s heaven, it’s hell, and Kagami just wants to rip off his shorts, rip off Kuroko’s shorts, wrap his hand around the velvet covered rock of his partner’s dick, pump and stroke and pleasure while he rams his own into the warm, waiting, willing depths of Kuroko’s ass.

And he decides to do just that.

He goes to his knees, tearing at his clothes, not caring where they land, not caring if they rend or shred in his impatient, gut-wrenching need. Kuroko watches him through gleaming, half-lidded eyes, his face flushed now with passion and love, and yes a raw, desperate craving. Kagami removes Kuroko’s remaining garments next, and though he’s not as rough, he’s not gentle, can’t be gentle, but Kuroko doesn’t complain, just lifts his hips and his hands help, eagerly pushing his shorts and underwear aside until he, too, is completely naked.

Kagami looks down at Kuroko’s nude arousal, at the jutting shaft surrounded by pale, blue curls, with its blushing tip and the small pearl of moisture beading there, and sucks in a ragged breath, and then he’s sucking that lovely pink cock into his mouth, deep into his throat. Kuroko cries out, pushing up off the futon, the hot and wet recesses of Kagami’s mouth providing wonderful, exquisite torture. Kagami knows, because it’s the same when Kuroko does it to him.

As his head bobs, as his tongue probes and licks and curls, his hands are moving, sliding up Kuroko’s flat stomach, mapping the angles and contours of the beautiful, lithe, _male_ body. Higher still, his fingers find the taut, pointed buds of hard nipples. His mouth working, savoring the unique, tangy flavor of Kuroko’s cock, he molds those small, stiff discs with his hands, sliding his palms over them, rolling them between his fingers, tugging and tweaking with delicate pinches, sending _Kuroko’s_ fingers into _his_ hair to pull and jerk.

“Kagami-kun,” Kuroko breathes, squeezing his thighs against Kagami’s shoulders.

It’s enough. Kagami’s dick is crying for relief, needing the luscious, sweet warmth of a tight ass to assuage him, needing Kuroko’s ass.

He takes his lips off Kuroko’s copiously weeping cock, dribbling saliva and pre-cum down its red, glistening shaft. Kuroko sees and moans, low and deep in his throat, lifting his hips to chase after Kagami’s retreating mouth. Kagami just chuckles darkly, sinfully. He’s done it on purpose after all. During their time together, he has discovered the little things that push Kuroko’s button, turn him on, and this is one of them.

But the playing, teasing, and tormenting is over. Kagami roots through the clothes he discarded, finds the lube and condoms he always carries now, ever since that day Kuroko grabbed his neck outside Maji Burger and stole his first real kiss (Alex doesn’t count) and stole his heart in the process.

He prepares Kuroko’s body, prepares himself, and he’s sinking into delicious, melting heat that grips him like a vise. Kuroko wraps his legs around Kagami, under the thrusting, clenching muscles of his ass, and Kagami can feel small toes pressing into the back of his thighs. He can’t describe how wonderful, how precious that one tiny piece of perfection is, the sensation of those little toes digging into his legs, and he wants to share this, tell his lover how much this moment means to him, but he looks down and he’s robbed of speech.

Kuroko’s head is thrown back, his eyes are closed and he is biting his lips, all his focus locked on the sensation of where they are joined as he lifts his hips in sync to Kagami’s thrusts. His face is red and wet, and his hair is damp and disheveled, and he’s never been more dazzling in Kagami’s eyes.

There’s no need for words between them, not now. Instead, he swoops down, melds their lips together as their bodies are melded together, and shoves and thrusts and plunges, stroking Kuroko's cock in time to his movements, not stopping until they both eventually reach the edge and fly apart, crying out their pleasure into each other’s mouth as they shatter, only to fall back to earth together, always together.

Afterwards, Kagami is the first to feel awkward, the first to need the comfort of clothes and distance. Even though he loves, wants, needs Kuroko, it’s just the way he is. So, when he goes to grab his shorts, he’s surprised by Kuroko’s hand on his wrist.

“I’m still hot, Kagami-kun,” Kuroko murmurs softly, then adds with a wry look at his body, “and sticky.” Kagami had worn a condom, Kuroko had not, and proof of his passion lies in wet, milky streams all over his belly and thighs.

“Uh, yeah,” Kagami fights the color trying to take over his face. After all they’ve done together, _he’s_ still the one that blushes like a schoolgirl. “Let me get dressed and I’ll set the bath for you.”

“I want you to come into the bath with me, Kagami-kun,” Kuroko shakes his head, nixing Kagami’s idea. “It’s your fault I’m still hot, and now messy as well. I want you to bathe me, like you did earlier.”

Unable to believe what he’s hearing, _Kuroko had started the whole thing, the little imp_ , Kagami jabs his hand out, preparing to squeeze Kuroko's head like a ripe tomato, but the glimmer in those wide blue eyes stop him. That light tells him they won’t be cooling down once they get in the bath, not at all, but heating up again. He’s right.

It’s hot, and it stays that way for a long, long time.

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> In case you just couldn't read what Takao was saying into the fan:
> 
> "Shin-chan, this isn't working. I'm still hot." and "Oooo, ahhh. Shin-chan sells seashells by the seashore."


End file.
